


As the Glutted Current Churns

by Unfoldeed



Series: Evil, Cloaked in Green [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Extension, Canon-Typical Behavior, Gen, Gore, Historical References, Hurt/Comfort, Mid-Canon, POV Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, Period Typical Bigotry, Plot Twists, Snark, Suspense, Violence, aka crusaders being unpleasant, medieval combat, tags updated as of chapter 4:
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:08:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21803485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unfoldeed/pseuds/Unfoldeed
Summary: During his travels outside Acre in search of an old enemy, Altaïr finds himself in charge of a lost and terrified civilian. While attempting to help her, he is stalked by aggressors - some desperate, others cunning and calculated.
Series: Evil, Cloaked in Green [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571146
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

_Your eyes are interesting enough. When you’re finished struggling, I will have them._

Altair cringed, twisted, pushed away. No amount of effort seemed to distance himself from the figure above him.

 _I don’t like to go hungry._ Maggots dripped from the leering mouth, from the corners of those empty eyes.

The knife sliced down. Altair thrashed to evade it.

“How many more have you killed?” He asked.

Another strike. Another, another. Fighting was only a blur; his arms struggling against the green mass that forced him down. Blood streamed out from somewhere, smeared everywhere.

“How many have died since I ran and left you to live?”

The strikes came faster, sliced deep. The knife had reached his eye. Altair clawed through air; as his fingers swiped for Yaser’s leering face, it disappeared in a flash.

The Assassin’s eyes were finally open. Above him sprawled a dark, cloudless sky, dyed blue with the promise of dawn, and brimming with stars.

Altair raised his hand against the starry backdrop. His skin was clean, his flesh uninjured, and Yaser was long dead. William had speared the old monster, run him through, and Altair had felt the man collapse and die, felt his blood as it spilled between them….

But the flash of green robes at Masyaf had been just as real, and Altair’s subconscious feared that the monster had lived.

He stood, gathering his weapons and armor. The watchtower roof had served well enough as a resting place, but Altair hated to linger. As pale sunlight began to touch the dark stones beneath his feet, he finished dressing; each stretch of mail and length of sharpened steel was fastened into place. He crept to the edge of the tower, perching on the crenulations. Beneath waited his horse and a convenient pile of hay. He paused first, savoring the expanse of wild terrain that surrounded him, breathing cold, untainted air.

His feet left the stones, arms outstretched. Sailing through empty space and crashing into the hay below felt as natural as an intake of breath. He leaped upright, dusting his shoulders, and unhitched his horse.

He would ride for the cliffs north of Acre, and seek the tunnels that had first led him to Yaser. He would not end his search, not until he found the monster’s body where William had struck him down.

The terrain had changed, freshly scarred by war and chaos. Husks of caravans sat burnt and decaying on the roadsides. Bodies nestled in open graves or baked in direct sunlight, attracting great numbers of birds. As Altair approached the river which had once carried William and himself away from the madman and his followers, he noted how it had changed: thinned by hot weather, and muddied by activity upstream. Skirmishes had multiplied around Acre as of late. Altair considered that a new one may be unfolding nearby. He dismounted his horse and secured the reigns to a tree, careful that the spot would be within view while he explored.

If not for the cliff stretching high above him, Altair worried that he might not have recognized this place from his adventure some months ago. Assuring himself that his memory was correct, he gathered his robes in one hand and crossed the river. As his boots reached dry rock, he began tracing the cliffside, seeking the tunnel that William had pulled him through.

The stones lining the cliff seemed to slope further out than they had before. More rocks may have fallen, and might have covered the passages. Altair frowned as he clambered over the cliff base, removing a few of the smaller chunks now and then in the faint hope that he would see an opening behind them.

Shuffling footsteps sounded from downriver. Altair turned, and saw a woman limping along the bank. Her arms shook as she clutched the filthy sleeves of her dress, and tears rolled from the dark eyes that stared out at him. Altair could see her gaze travel from his weapons to the unmarked front of his robes, likely searching for anything that would mark him as a threat. He stepped to the flat edge of the bank, holding out an open hand.

“What are you doing here?” He asked. Judging by her style of clothing, she would likely understand Arabic, so he didn’t bother testing any second languages. The woman didn’t answer, but Altair noticed a shift in her expression. Rigid lines of fear dissolved around her eyes, and her mouth dropped open in an exhausted sigh.

“Did you come from the tunnels in the cliff?” Concerned as he was for her, Altair’s mind still buzzed with his own interests. He couldn’t help but wonder if she may have suffered her own unfortunate experience in the hellish maze that waited underground.

“You can speak, can’t you?”

The woman’s mouth twisted in response. Her hands fell to her sides, and she took another limping step towards Altair. He could see blood on the skirt of her dress, where one of her knees had pressed into it. He held up a hand, but when she continued attempting to walk, he closed the distance between them, catching her just as she began to stagger off balance. Altair was surprised as a pair of bony arms wrapped tightly around him, and the woman began sobbing – loudly.

Blinking, the assassin held onto her and surveyed the land around them. His eyes twitched at every suspect movement or human-sized shadow. No danger – nothing more than birds in a few nearby trees. He hoped the woman had not been pursued after all, though he supposed that killing the hypothetical pursuers would be worthwhile in its own way.

As a particularly violent sob was torn from the woman’s lungs, Altair looked back at her. She was leaning completely against him, her head buried into his chest. He wondered what cruel misfortune could have stolen her capacity for speech and brought her to seek comfort in a stranger.

“Let me help you,” he said, and gathered her up so that she was clinging to the front of his body, no longer straining her injured leg. Supporting her, Altair noted that she felt barely heavier than a child, though her face and stature suggested that she was about his own age. He bid an inward goodbye to what remained of the food he’d brought; she would need it more.

He crossed back over the river, to where his horse and supplies waited.

“We’ll see what can be done for your injury, yes?” He paused. “I can take you further east, if you wish. Do you have family somewhere?”

The woman had stopped sobbing. Seeming to listen to him, she gathered her breath, and nodded against his shoulder.

As her hands fumbled over him, Altair almost thought he could feel one of his throwing knives slide free of its sheath.


	2. Chapter 2

She still hadn’t spoken. Altair supplied her with food and fresh water after arranging a comfortable place for her to sit, but not a word came out of her, even when he only asked for her name. When he asked permission to look at her injured knee, she barely nodded, her gaze aimlessly probing the air.

Pulling back blood-soaked layers of clothing, Altair frowned at what appeared to be the work of a sword across the front and side of the joint. Likely an enemy’s last attempt to lash out and stop her from running.

“Who caused this?” He asked, cleaning the wound with a spare cloth soaked in water. The woman clenched her fists but didn’t respond.

“All I would need is a name,” Altair said. “Can you write it?”

She looked down, seeming to reason the question in her mind. Eventually, she shook her head.

Altair lacked any more cloth to bind the wound, so he cut a few neat lengths from his own sleeve, and set to work wrapping her knee. A metallic glint caught his eye, and he paused to notice the handle of his own throwing knife in the woman’s fist.

“That is not yours,” he admonished. Silent as usual, the woman’s face twisted, and she clutched the knife closer to her. Altair thrust out a hand.

“Return it.”

Her grimace twisted further with what appeared to be anger. She jerked away from him, holding the knife so that the point faced him. Annoyed, Altair shook his head and sat back.

“Fine, then,” he said. “Keep it, if you think it will help you. And you can finish that yourself.” A gesture at her half-wrapped wound. The Assassin stood, adjusting his now torn sleeve, and walked a few paces off to check again for any signs of danger.

He supposed he shouldn’t care that the woman had armed herself. Though lethal in his own hands, such a small blade hardly made her a threat, inexperienced as she likely was. To feel threatened by her was nonsensical, he told himself; she clearly needed his help, regardless of her stealing his knife. He decided that if she hadn’t properly dressed the wound by the time he was back, he would still help her with it.

The river trickled along nearby, appearing muddier as the sun rose higher. Altair squinted at the cliff on the other side, still wondering if he might notice an open passage. He thought back to the old map that he stowed in his horse’s saddle – it would be no use if he couldn’t find the tunnels’ entrance to begin with.

He circled back, considering if he should seek out a way in through Acre. That meant Templars, but he would arrive well-armed this time.

The opportunity interested him. But first he would help the injured woman travel back to safe territory. Altair returned to her and found that she had neatly bound up her knee. No blood seemed to seep through; even though she still scowled and clung to the throwing knife, he was pleased that her condition might be improving.

“You’ll ride east with me,” Altair explained, kneeling across from her. “I doubt you have interest in traveling elsewhere, with the war as it is.”

She nodded.

“When we reach the Saracens’ territory, we can part ways. I have contacts who would help you find your family.” Altair knew that some of the Assassin informants wouldn’t hesitate to help a civilian, and those who didn’t care could be bribed. He didn’t mind disposing of a few targets in exchange for their help.

“Can you tell me anything about yourself? Why you were out here, or at least your name?”

The woman’s mouth opened and closed. Her dark eyes squinted and blinked as if a bright light was flashing at her. She bent forward, looking down, and picked up a stone to draw in the dirt:

ندى

“Nada. That’s you?”

Without lifting her eyes, the woman nodded. Wiping away her name, she put stone to dirt a second time, scrawling with more urgency, jerking her arm with each new word.

_We must leave. I might be followed._

“By who?”

She swiped the dirt clear again, and wrote another line. Her hand began to shake.

_I came here to find my father. I thought I found him. However_

Nada dropped the stone, grinding her teeth as she stared, unblinking, at the ground. Altair could see the fear and confusion on her face as clearly as the words in the dirt. She brushed them away, and wrote again:

_We must leave._

“I can confront whoever is following you,” Altair persisted. “I’ll kill them if necessary – and then you would have no reason to be afraid.”

Nada shook her head, drawing a firm circle around the line she had written. Altair could feel a host of irrational thoughts begin leaking into his mind, spreading like a flood.

 _Yaser. Yaser._ Who else inspired this sort of fear in people? Altair’s eyes darted over every rock and tree that surrounded them, judging, _expecting_.

“We will remain here. If he’s followed us, I’ll end his life myself.”

Nada looked as if he had promised to kill her instead of her pursuer. She threw down the stone and curled up where she sat. Altair turned away from her, searching for green in the distance, for the danger that he felt certain existed. He saw nothing, and only heard Nada beginning to cry.

He cursed the situation. He felt so close to the source of all his lingering paranoia, all his horrific nightmares. The tunnels were _right there_ , but a way in had been denied to him, and now there was this injured woman to look after.

She was crying in earnest now. Altair realized that she was probably terrified. After finding someone capable of helping her, she was instead being held – practically as bait – within reach of whoever had attacked her. Altair dug his boot against the ground, kicked it once with his heel.

It wouldn’t be fair to make her stay here, he decided. He turned back, and held out his hand to Nada.

“I can see you have no interest in staying.” An understatement. “So shall we go?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -sorry this chapter is on the short side  
> -it’s harder to name my ocs who are local/arabic. growing up in america you learn so exclusively about western culture and history that you only get a feel for old-timey names in those particular cultures. i had to rely on user feedback from naming websites to figure out which arabic names have history/sound old. because idk, if someone better educated stumbles onto my fic i don’t want the name choices to break immersion  
> -also nada can write because (besides plot convenience) i was wondering: how much of a thing was 12th century literacy? and according to the wiki page on female education it was pretty normal for 12th century muslim folks of all genders to be literate. fuck yea women’s rights  
> -and yea she cries a lot but that's because unlike altair she has a normal human reaction to traumatic and life-threatening situations


	3. Chapter 3

The two of them traveled East without incident. Altair doubted his decision to leave, in spite of seeing no better choice. Before the disaster at Solomon’s Temple, he would never have given up so quickly, least of all for the sake of a random citizen. That side of him still criticized his every choice, every beat of hooves in the wrong direction. His work had been left unfinished, the grudge against Yaser unresolved. In its wake, an unknown was festering. Yaser could lie waiting as nothing more than a pile of bones in his tunnels, or he could be following them – just out of sight. Altair shook the thought away.

Nada clung onto him as his horse carried them up and down the narrow trails. Occasionally, she would begin to shake his shoulder, and he would stop the horse to allow her a break. Each time, she would shuffle away to some distant spot of privacy behind a patch of stone fencing or a large tree. Altair could see her holding her stomach, as if nauseous – from so many hours on horseback, or from the stress of the same trauma that had silenced her, he didn’t know.

He worried that she might be pregnant – wondered if it was possible for someone so thin and so distressed to carry a child. He made a point of offering her more of his supplies after the thought first occurred to him. She accepted a few handfuls of dried fruit, but shook her head at anything more.

Eventually, Altair needed a break of his own. Familiar with the trails between Crusader and Saracen territory, he took a small detour down a winding valley. It led them to a little oasis: thick vegetation, sheltering against both the sun and the eyes of enemies – and most importantly, clean water. Altair led the horse to a particularly obscured patch of land at the water’s edge, and hitched it to a palm tree. Nada disappeared as usual, and the Assassin began removing his outfit, starting with the sheaths belted onto his sides and ending with his underclothes, all laid neatly on the rocks above the pond. He submerged himself, savoring the feeling of cold water running through his hair, soaking into his scalp. Hours of desert heat under a hood brought on a sweaty, stifling feeling, one that he never tolerated for long.

Rising halfway above water, he worked to rinse any accrued grime from his skin. He paused to examine the thick scar along his elbow, where days of struggle and suffering had left their mark. The joint had become surprisingly flexible after setting and healing; he wondered if the difference might benefit him in the future, if one fortunate thing might come of his harrowing experiences outside Acre those months ago.

Something rustled high up in the trees behind him. He turned toward the shore, his sword one step and reach away. The oasis was quiet again. Altair turned back to the water. Any number of animals could have produced the noise, he thought.

The sun was beginning to set. Altair watched its light dance on the dark surface of the pond, striping it gold. Realizing that he was beginning to linger, he stepped onto the bank and quickly squirmed into his clothes. Drying off first might have been more pleasant, he thought in hindsight, but efficiency mattered most. He and Nada would need a place to rest for the night, and the night was quickly approaching.

As Altair began to sheathe his shortblade, a _thump_ , followed by a shout – Nada’s – made him pull it free again. He whirled to seek her out and dashed through a cluster of branches. Breaking into a small clearing, he saw the woman with a rock in her hand, facing a bearded crusader, who held only a bundle of dates with both arms. Altair lunged between them, but there was no need; the crusader took off at a sprint, disappearing into a tangle of undergrowth.

Altair watched for others, stilled himself so that any flicker, any piece of red enemy would make itself known. Nothing. The soldier had traveled alone.

Nada shuddered wordlessly. She gestured to the sky, and Altair followed her finger to the top of a date palm, recently stripped of its fruit. Then she thrust her hand at a trampled patch of bushes.

“So he fell, then.” Altair sighed. Crusaders falling from the sky – not a pleasant development.

Hoofbeats sounded in the distance, out of sight. Likely the stranger’s getaway. Altair checked that his horse was still waiting at the pond, just to be certain.

“We should set off,” he called back to Nada. “I’ll find a place for us to take shelter.”

“Shelter” became a crumbling stone house that appeared uninhabited since before the crusade even began. The roof, surprisingly, stood intact, so Nada and Altair settled on the upper floor, where no open doorways would allow in the cold drafts of night air. Only a small window waited at the top of the stairs, and it was patched over with wood.

“We might manage to find someplace better, if you would prefer to continue looking,” Altair said. Nada shook her head appearing as tired as her answer would suggest, and so they stayed.

Their space was dark, but safe. Altair lit one of the small torches he had brought along in order to survey it. He had already left the horse at the back of the house, where the remains of a wooden veranda allowed her some shelter. Upstairs, there was not enough ventilation to safely create a campfire, but some old bedding and wall-hangings would provide insulation to sleep warmly for the night.

Nada seemed to fall asleep as soon as she had covered herself with a few layers. Altair remained awake, sitting beside her as he listened for any disturbance. The crusader with his armful of dates had been the only exception to their uneventful journey, but Altair could feel its approach:

Danger. Whether it might arrive in the form of green robes or quilted surcoats, Altair didn’t know. But he remained far from Masyaf, with a dependent civilian to watch over. No matter _what_ the threat, it existed, and Altair wanted to be ready for when it presented itself.

A lifetime of training had granted him the fortitude to stave off sleep, even after days of traveling. Altair planned to make use of it now.

So he was wide awake when a dozen horses’ hoofbeats broke the silence, and men chattering in French began to enter the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -merry chrysler  
> -if you actually read this slow chapter in its entirety then shit! all i can say is thanks for your dedication  
> -as basically anyone might predict it's gonna get interesting from here on out, comment with what you want to see or what you expect to see, idk


	4. Chapter 4

Altair felt Nada awaken beside him, pushing upright and grabbing for his arm. Each new voice and footfall had her flinching toward the far corner, but she made no sound, and Altair was grateful for it.

“Hide,” he whispered to her, offering the remaining bedding to bury herself under. She laid beneath it and covered herself completely, then stilled. Altair drew his shortblade, and listened, parsing the coarse strings of French and the shuffle of armored bodies.

“Too damned cold,” one of the voices muttered. “All this trouble just to scavenge for food and look for travelers. We should have remained at camp.”

“The sergeant ordered this,” added a louder, lower voice. “We do as he says, and he’ll see to it we’re fed.”

“The sergeant is full of shit-”

“Enough, Onfroi.”

More shuffling, booted feet scraping on stone. No one had approached the stairs – not yet. But if they did….

Altair looked back at Nada. She was completely concealed under the bundle of cloth. He hoped that none of the intruders would disturb the unassuming pile.

Altair considered finding a better angle, perhaps from the top of the stairs, where he could send a few throwing knives their way. But the sheer number of them made him hesitate. Any men left alive would pose a threat to Nada, who could easily panic and get herself further into danger during a fight.

Light flickered from the bottom of the stairs. A fire.

“At last,” one of them muttered. Altair heard something being scraped along the stone floor.

“Take a look in this jar. Oil, of some sort.”

“Add it to the fire before we freeze.”

Altair crept to the boarded-up window, realizing all too late the threat of being smoked out. The _whoosh_ of oil-fed flames made him start, and black curls of smoke immediately began billowing upstairs. Even the Franks downstairs had begun coughing.

“A bit much, you think?” One of them grumbled.

“Forget it. Just find some more wood before it burns itself out.”

Altair felt around the window, then pulled at the wooden covering. Staying hidden had seemed like the best option, but this smoke could kill them if it collected, and the window would be their only discrete option of escape. He tugged harder, just beginning to pull it open, but a lungful of burning hot smoke made him stop, clutching his throat and willing away the instinct to cough. He looked to Nada again. She was motionless, hopefully sheltered from the worst of the smoke as it pooled against the ceiling. Returning to the window, he bent back part of the board; it was tightly secured, and in spite of his strength, Altair couldn’t move it with his hands alone. Struggling any further with it would only exhaust him, he realized, as he stepped back to cough as silently as he could manage. His chest burned. Smoke continued to fill the air.

Altair drew his sword, wedging it between the board and the wall, then pushing. Finally, he pried it free. The noise was covered by the bustle of footsteps and crackling fire downstairs. Altair paused to wipe his eyes as the smoke began to sting terribly. He allowed himself one breath of half-fresh air through the opened window, trying to reason his options.

“Onfroi,” said the low voice downstairs. “You checked the second floor, yes?”

“Not yet, Ferrand.”

“Those travelers could be anywhere. Remember – I promised the sergeant….”

Without thinking any further, Altair rushed over to Nada, pulling her from her hiding place. She stumbled and blinked as she found her footing, appearing drowsy from the smoke.

“Through the window,” he whispered. “I’ll help you. Once you’re through, you have to run.”

Maybe the crusaders would not be hostile to Nada, he thought, but he wasn’t willing to find out – and he knew her association with him, an Assassin, would not help her chances.

Nada reached the window and began to wriggle through. Small as she was, her only major obstacle was the smoke clouding her senses. As footsteps approached the stairs, Altair urged her further from the haze of smoke, pushing her hips through the window frame and allowing her a foothold to kick off from. He failed to muffle a cough while watching Nada disappear through the opening. An impact sounded from outside the house. He could only hope that she had landed unharmed, that she could run in time….

Altair began sliding down the wall. The smell of ignited oil and charred wood was overpowering. He felt as if smoke had gathered in his head – hot, churning. Breathing hurt.

“Someone is here!”

More voices. Figures burst through the smoke. Altair coughed, trying to regain his footing, to back away. But smoke swirled in his thoughts like mud, weighing him down, and moving backward only pushed him against the wall. Foreign hands found his arms, and instead of twisting free, he slumped sideways, and his eyes fell shut.

Altair awoke to morning sunlight, filtered through the thin roof of a tent. His chest still burned from the smoke that had stunned him. Voices surrounded him – all foreign, all male.

“There must be some value in keeping him. Wouldn’t you agree, Sergeant?”

“His horse is a prize in itself,” answered a voice muffled by a helmet. “And given the weapons you found, he must be some agent of Saladin. Perhaps a ransom could be had.”

“Ah! A ransom!”

The burning worsened. Altair turned his head as he coughed. The sound was ragged, horrible.

“Look – he wakes.”

“He’s ill!” The sergeant’s voice. “You brought a diseased man into the camp?”

“It’s only due to the smoke,” one of his men explained. More voices buzzed above him.

Altair glanced around, finding several men in crusaders’ garb. The helmeted one – the sergeant – stood closest, inspecting what Altair recognized as his own shortblade. His weapons, predictably, had been taken from him, scabbards and all. At least his robes remained, though his hood had been displaced.

He tried to sit up. His wrists were tied behind his back, making the simple action awkward. He rolled to one side and pushed upright in spite of the hindrance. Immediately, an aggressive hand shoved him down on his back again, hard enough to knock his head against the ground. Altair saw stars, and blinked to discern the face of the offending stranger. He recognized him as the bearded man who had been scavenging dates at the oasis.

“You do not move unless the sergeant permits it, heathen,” the man said. “Or would you rather I-”

“There’s no use threatening him, Ferrand,” the sergeant dismissed. “He likely does not understand us.”

“I understand well enough,” Altair retorted in their own language, glaring singularly at this “Ferrand.” He remembered exactly the moment when the soldier had bolted off into the bushes like a scared animal. The moment Altair _chose_ not to hunt him down. That choice had hardly gone unpunished – and now Altair could recall distinctly why he had once been so reluctant to spare bystanders, to “stay his blade….”

“I have no fight with any of you,” the Assassin said, pausing to turn his head and cough. “But be assured that no good will come to you if you hold me captive. Return my property and let me be off.”

“Ha! The Saracen speaks,” Ferrand remarked. Altair wondered if the crusader had bothered to hear a single word.

“You will remain until your allies pay a suitable ransom,” the sergeant said. “And your arguing won’t fool me. Only one of Saladin’s men would be so well-armed.”

So the sergeant was as ignorant as he was self-confident. Altair didn’t waste his breath replying.

“Get him out of my tent. Onfroi, Ferrand, the two of you will watch him at all times. I must relate the news to his lordship.”

“Understood, Sergeant,” Ferrand answered. He seized Altair by the shoulder, and a second man – Onfroi, helped pull him to his feet. They rushed out of the tent and into a muddy, riverside encampment.

“Since you understand me, I have a question to ask,” Ferrand persisted. “When I first saw you, there was a girl in your company. Where has she gone, hm?”

The memory of her escape rushed back in an instant. So Nada had not yet been found. Altair breathed out, his sharp glare growing distant, for only a moment.

“Back to Damascus. Some travelers allowed her to ride with them,” he lied.

“So she is gone, then? And I had promised the sergeant _two_ captives.”

“Never mind, Ferrand,” Onfroi said.

“Maybe _you_ are content to disappoint our superior, but I am not.”

“His lordship is our true superior.”

The squabbling Franks directed Altair to the center of camp – little more than a circular clearing peppered with muddy bootprints.

“You’ll wait here,” Ferrand ordered, attempting to push the Assassin onto his knees. Altair twisted away.

“I won’t sit in the dirt,” he snarled. Ferrand’s eyes blazed, and for a moment, Altair expected a fight.

“So be it, heathen,” the Frank responded. “You’ll stand here, day and night. And if you fall, if you even stumble, I’ll beat you.”

Unimpressed, Altair answered Ferrand with only a glare. Ferrand shoved him, but the Assassin had expected the behavior, braced for it, and neither of his boots so much as budged from their place.

“We’ll see how you fare in a few days,” Ferrand hissed, and stalked off with Onfroi to wait outside the tents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -it wouldn't be a proper sequel without more bad choices, bad people, and suffering  
> -misery part 2: electric boogaloo  
> -do you want ferrand dead? very dead? super dead? gimme your hot takes in the comments  
> -sometimes the crusader folks will be referred to as "Franks." that's because according to good old wiki, local people labeled the crusaders that way, regardless of their specific origins (although these crusaders are actually french/at least french speakers)


	5. Chapter 5

Standing still was easy enough, in spite of the days prior without sleep. Worse burdens had been placed on Altair before. He would hold out, pending the opportunity to free himself. He shifted his weight to one leg, pausing until it became uncomfortable, and repeated with the other. Simple enough.

“Stand tall while you can, heathen,” Ferrand taunted from his stool under a tent canopy. Altair cocked his head, but didn’t bother to respond. Why exactly this cretin had decided to antagonize him, he didn’t know. But Ferrand surely seemed to enjoy fidgeting with what appeared to be the broken handle of a scimitar, and Altair wondered at the soldier's past experiences with Saracens. He doubted that any of them were pleasant.

As the Assassin waited, he studied the camp. Its banners were too tattered to distinguish their order, and equipment was scattered about in a way resembling a lair of bandits far more than a proper crusaders' camp. In front of him sat the sergeant’s tent, flanked by Onfroi and Ferrand, and to its left, a slightly larger, more colorful copy. Inside, Altair could hear the screaming and babbling of the Franks’ leader – his lordship – loudly suffering the approach of death. His subordinates could be heard whispering among themselves concerning his sickness: “miasma,” “effluvia,” “death in the water.” No single description seemed to satisfy them. All they had agreed upon was that his lordship was too sick to speak, let alone issue orders.

The sergeant would alternate between his tent and the lord’s, helmet in hand, emerging flushed with wine from his own, then pale with dread from the other. Some of his soldiers would follow behind him, whispering urgently, constantly, always of food.

“The dates are exhausted. We need-”

“I am well aware.”

“Do you think a portion of the reserves could be divided out?”

“Not yet, not yet.”

Altair only caught glimpses of the “reserves:” little more than a few crates of leftover supplies, all hoarded in the back of the sergeant’s tent. With the tent flap closed, they were out of sight. Occasionally, the sergeant would beckon one of his men inside, and the lucky chosen one would duck back out a moment later with an armful of goods. Ferrand was one such lucky soldier. Altair saw him led into the tent several times, only to return with a mouthful of bread or a flask of wine. Onfroi waited only a few paces away, hour after hour, and was given nothing.

The Assassin soon realized that the soldiers were not lucky, rather favored. The sergeant seemed to maintain a tight clique of close allies, while the rest of the men in camp were ignored. Ferrand spoke eagerly with the sergeant, mentioning frequently that their captive was “behaving,” answered the sergeant’s every gesture, greeting and order – and he was rewarded for it. Others such as Onfroi regarded their superior with cold silence, and stood visibly thinner, deprived.

The afternoon sun was shining brightly in Altair’s eyes by the time a particularly gaunt man with reddish hair emerged from one of the smaller tents, clutching a note in his gauntleted hand. He walked straight to Onfroi, glancing at Ferrand, who squinted back coldly over his refilled flask.

“Gilo,” Onfroi greeted, his tone hushed and shoulders high. “What news of-”

The thin man quieted him with a brusque gesture, and began to speak quickly, in a tone so subdued that even Altair struggled to eavesdrop over the general bustle of camp. Ferrand seemed to lose interest in the newcomer, in favor of downing more wine. Eventually, Gilo’s whispering stopped, and he turned toward Altair. The Frank seemed to eye him from head to toe. Altair recognized cunning behind that thin face, and answered it with an unflinching stare.

“So the sergeant believes him to be a Saracen,” Gilo whispered back at Onfroi.

“Wouldn’t he be correct?”

Gilo’s response was once again too quiet to discern, partly thanks to the lord’s renewed wailing. Altair strained to listen as he waited under the beaming sun. The note in Gilo’s hand was unfolded for Onfroi to analyze. The Franks seemed to keep their backs to Ferrand, concealing the note. Altair wondered if Ferrand would have noticed at all; his focus seemed divided solely between two things: his drink and his captive’s footing.

A few words could be heard as some of the other men’s footsteps trailed off.

“See the cross here?” Gilo said, pointing at a spot on the note.

“So that is where we will stop.”

A nod. Gilo glanced continuously from Onfroi, to the map, to Altair.

“I will return tonight with a decision.”

“I see,” Onfroi said. Immediately, his ally stalked off, disappearing the way he had come.

“Your little ‘friend’ whispers too much for his own good,” Ferrand remarked, beginning to slur his words.

“We did not mean to disturb you.”

Altair ignored the discussion, against his better judgment, and looked down at his feet, the mud beneath them mostly dried. Too many hours of direct sunlight were beginning to wear on him. He began to sway, but righted himself without taking a step, and shrugged a few beads of sweat off his face.

Ferrand did not pass up the chance to bray at him.

“Enjoying yourself?” He called. “Or have you come to regret opposing me?”

“I thought you might be growing bored,” Altair answered. “If not, I can remain here until your whole camp has starved. Would you prefer that?”

“Quiet. Hearing you babble in our tongue appalls me.”

“You slur in it so eloquently.”

A snort – possibly a laugh – erupted from Onfroi, as Ferrand's flushed face reddened further with rage. He scrambled up from his stool, pulling a dagger from his belt, but as he took his first step towards the center of camp, the sergeant emerged from his tent.

“What is the commotion?”

“Ah…” Ferrand fumbled, already sheathing the dagger. “No matter.”

“Good, then. Gather the men. There is news to be shared."

The “news” was unfortunate. As the cluster of crusaders shuffled in place and whispered among themselves, casting their occasional hard, suspicious stares at Altair, the sergeant informed them that no food reserves were left to spare for the night, or the following day. To pacify the troops, the sergeant offered all of the wine held over from their last supply. Many readily accepted the offer, though a certain few – Onfroi and Gilo included – declined.

“Lastly,” the sergeant added, “his lordship has not yet recovered. He is not coherent enough to speak. Any measure of food or drink I have offered to him is instantly…expelled. I will continue to command his forces in his place, as per his order.”

While some raised a flask or goblet to the statement, those without flasks at all made no such gesture. Altair watched them, waiting….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -i overhauled the summaries of both my works, so i guess they can actually be considered summaries now  
> -also why can't i make nice ocs  
> -comment whatever you like my dudes


	6. Chapter 6

Shadows clawed over the campsite as the sun set. The Franks lit a few sputtering torches and fastened them to pikes in the ground. Eventually, only the torchlight lit their way as they paced about, ducking in and out of their tents – or stumbling, in the cases of the sergeant’s drunken inner circle.

Ferrand’s stupor did not seem to be lifting; his head lolled over his stool, and he was motionless but for his breath, and some occasional scratching of his wine-swollen belly. Onfroi remained perfectly upright, barely blinking as his focus on Altair never wavered.

His friend – Gilo – appeared from one of the distant tents, and the two exchanged whispers. Altair might have overheard everything, if not for the dying man’s constant groaning, which had only worsened as the night arrived. Instead, the Assassin only heard fragments.

“…The others are waiting. So…”

“…But the sergeant…”

“…Just do as I tell you.”

Suddenly, the two Franks faced forward and walked towards Altair, who immediately took a half step away from them.

“We’re going to help you,” Onfroi whispered as he closed the distance, and snatched Altair by his arm. Gilo took his legs, and the two wasted no time half carrying, half dragging him over dirt and grass, seeming to glance in every direction as they did so.

Onfroi’s words gave Altair pause, but little weight could be given to the assurance of an enemy soldier, and as he was pulled further from the center of camp, away from the flickering torchlight, he kicked and thrashed, trying to wrench free, or at least dig his heels into the dirt.

“Enough of that,” Onfroi hissed. “Didn’t you hear me?”

“Let go.” Another thrash. Onfroi lost his grip, and Altair took the chance to press his shoulder against the ground, creating as much friction as he could. The other man alone was barely able to budge him.

“Someone will see us. They will tell the sergeant,” Onfroi said.

“It’s no matter,” Gilo insisted under his breath, nudging Onfroi along. “I told you – they will assume something else.”

Onfroi appeared to cringe in response. He took up Altair’s arm again in spite of the Assassin’s attempts to twist away, and continued dragging him. Every patch of ground was contested, but with Altair’s hands still tied, he could only kick or drag his heels, both of which simply prolonged an unfair battle.

“Let go!”

He was wrestled over to the stables on the outskirts of camp. Altair noticed his own horse in one of the pens. Standing in front of her were two more Franks, appearing as little more than black shapes in the absence of any torchlight. Altair considered his chances of breaking free and making a dash for his horse, but with his hands bound behind him, he doubted he could ride away with any success. He continued to struggle regardless, planting his knee into the ground and twisting violently. In spite of his efforts, he was scraped along like so much cargo.

He was thrown into an empty pen, and one of the waiting men walked in to corner him, along with Onfroi and Gilo. The fourth man remained outside, watching the camp. Altair sat up to face them, gathering his breath so that he might struggle with renewed force. He grimaced, and his pulse thudded against his throat.

“Be calm,” Onfroi demanded, leaning in, and was answered with a kick that cracked his jaw. He recoiled, and Gilo drew his sword. Altair could hear his horse snorting and puffing beside him, in obvious distress.

“I said be calm! We will not hurt you.” Onfroi paused, grunting in pain. “We have an offer for you. A most valuable offer. But we could not reveal this around the sergeant or his idiot followers. They must not know anything that is said here. Understand?”

As Onfroi clutched the raw beginnings of a swollen cut, Altair stared him down.

“Explain it, then!” the Assassin said.

“Allow me.” Gilo. “As you may have noticed, there is a ‘problem’ of food in this outpost. The sergeant has taken it upon himself to hoard all the supplies we still possess, while his honorable lordship remains too ill to take charge. So – we must correct this, but we are in need of help.”

“Unbind me, return my horse and my equipment, and I _might_ bother to help you.” Altair didn’t care about their plan, and decided that making his terms clear up front might save them some trouble.

“In time, in time,” Gilo assured, raising a hand. “Listen – the sergeant took you for a Saracen, but I’ve seen men like you before. The ones that travel with scholars. You’re different, and I’d be willing to ally with you. I’d ally with any such man who knows better than to become some pawn of Saladin.”

Gilo’s words flowed eagerly, his smile almost too friendly. Altair began doubting every word. Meanwhile, the Frank standing watch walked off to intercept another who approached the stables – or rather drunkenly staggered in its direction. They traded unintelligible words, and when conversation seemed to accomplish nothing, the drunk was punched in the nose and beaten flat into the ground.

“What the sergeant does not realize is that there’s no ransom to be had from you. Likely no information of use to us, either. But we understand. We would rather see you go free, while assisting us in the process, of course.” Gilo clasped his hands together with a clink of his metal armor.

“I would not be willing or able to assist you without my possessions returned.”

“That will be arranged.”

The guard returned from his fight, dusting off his blood-flecked gauntlets.

“He won’t remember a thing come morning,” the guard chuckled to Gilo. His friend nodded back.

“About your equipment,” Gilo continued, turning to Altair. “Some of my allies will retrieve it, when our dear sergeant leaves his tent for his midnight piss. We will bring it, and the horse, to the old house where we found you, east of here. It will be up to you to reach it and ride away, once we’ve allowed you the chance to escape.”

Altair scowled.

“You spoke of ‘allying’ with me – but you would withhold my weapons?”

“Arming you immediately would tell the sergeant that he is betrayed. We can’t afford to reveal ourselves so early. But we will give you all the opportunity you need. While you run for the watchtower, my friends and I will load our wagon with the sergeant’s hoard and disappear in the opposite direction. Everyone escapes.”

“You’ll stalk away like cowards after forcing me to run for my life,” Altair corrected. He couldn’t help but imagine how his sword might grind against Gilo’s eye socket, as he plunged it through that grinning face.

“Running is preferable to staying here, wouldn’t you think?” The guard asked. “The sergeant spares no food for us, let alone an enemy, and what would he do when he realizes you cannot be ransomed, I wonder?”

“You should thank us, ‘scholar,’” Gilo said. “This offer is all the chance you’ll have.”

“I won’t help you. Your offer is worthless to me.”

Gilo’s toothy face contorted with rage. He descended on Altair in an instant, pinning his head sideways against the ground. The Assassin lashed out, bringing up his knee to slam against Gilo’s back.

“Gilo,” Onfroi protested. “You don’t have to-”

“Make him hold still.”

Relenting, Onfroi sat on his legs. Without his arms free either, Altair could barely struggle.

“You fail to understand how _compassionate_ we have chosen to be,” Gilo said. “If it pleased me I would open your skull right here in the dirt. The sergeant may not favor us, but he would not question our choice to kill a _disgusting_ heathen.” He spat down, and Altair could only turn marginally away from it.

“All we would need to say is that you tried to run,” Gilo hissed. “So you will do exactly as we tell you. No other option will leave you alive.”

Altair kept his eyes shut, bracing for more spit to the face, or possibly a strike. His horse had begun to toss its head, puffing again.

“When we bring you back, you will not speak to the sergeant or his followers. You will regard us with fear – as you _should_. And you will wait until we allow you your chance. Understand?”

Altair hesitated, and the strike came, made sharp by the studs in Gilo’s gauntleted fist. Hot blood trickled from his ear, which rang shrill in his head. Refusing to speak, the Assassin pushed past shame just enough to give Gilo a nod.

“He learns,” the Frank remarked. “You see, Onfroi – my plans never fail.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- i feel like i made some decent villains so far in the series but hadn’t made any truly Truly hateable ones. so here you go! gilo is here to be selfish and gross and make everyone mad  
> \- also yea this story has taken quite a detour. part of why i raised the planned chapter limit  
> \- to be completely honest, the lack of hits/interest has been kinda brutal. so.. i'm working on another fic for a bit, but i'll be back to this one soon


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -one important retcon was made. i took away all the uses of the word "knight." all of the crusader ocs i've introduced so far are just soldiers, not knights

Altair was made to wait at the stable as Gilo enacted his plot. They watched the sergeant leave his tent empty, and then the “subordinates” wasted no time ducking inside, only to sneak out with the Assassin’s equipment. Altair watched Gilo ride off on his own horse, carrying his own property. He cursed that there was nothing he could do to halt their scheme.

Not for the moment – contrary to what his fellow Assassins might say, Altair trusted that he could bide his time successfully.

When Gilo retruned, and his guard deemed it time, he and Onfroi pulled Altair from the stable. The Assassin walked in front of them to the center of camp, where he was left to stand again. Before they released him, Gilo produced a fist-sized bell, tying it to Altair’s arm with a stretch of rope.

“Your escape will cause quite a scene now,” he whispered, smirking. Altair seethed, and tugged his arm free.

At the tone of the bell, Ferrand began blinking awake.

“What’s the commotion?” He slurred, wiping his wet beard as he stumbled upright.

“The prisoner was misbehaving,” Gilo answered. “We’re seeing that he receives no second chance to be sly.”

“Misbehaving?” Equal measures drunk and outraged, Ferrand approached.

“No need to teach him a lesson. We taught him plenty.” Altair had never heard a laugh so base as the one that followed, pouring from Gilo’s mouth like so much sewage.

Ferrand sneered at the affront to his bloodlust, or perhaps at the general tone of their conversation.

“The silence is an improvement, I suppose,” he muttered. Gilo was already slipping away into another tent, and Onfroi began to follow suit.

“Remember the plan,” the soldier whispered, barely loud enough for Altair, and certainly beyond Ferrand’s earshot. Altair gave the statement no response, merely dug his boot harder against the dirt, picturing certain faces beneath his heel.

“It seems I will be taking second watch,” Ferrand said, as his brows squirmed into a dissatisfied knot. Altair sensed that Ferrand’s post-stupor headache was already beginning to affect him.

The Assassin considered his options. He and the soldier were alone. Without his hands free, let alone his weapons, Altair wondered if he could land a killing blow. He imagined charging Ferrand, driving his knee against the drunkard’s jaw with enough force to stun him. A few sharp stomps to the base of Ferrand’s skull would almost certainly kill him, and no one was out at this hour to bear witness….

As Altair began to lean forward, anticipating blood, the bell on his arm turned slightly, and clanged.

“Tired, heathen?”

Every instinct Altair possessed was screaming for retribution, to teach this leering, arrogant crusader his place. But at the sound of the bell, the whole camp would come running to kill him, and then his revenge on the lot of them would be thwarted. He shut his eyes against the glare of red, not moving.

“The next time you care to disturb my peace,” Ferrand snarled, “why don’t you finally collapse?”

A number of retorts gathered in his mind, but Altair hesitated to draw any attention. The camp was quiet for the moment – if “his lordship’s” wailing could be discounted – and Altair wanted that quiet to last until he could devise a plan. He stood silently and thought. And stood. And stood….

Endurance tests were much easier on a full night’s sleep, which Altair had missed for the better part of a week. Frustration set in, building up as strong and dark as the smoke that had blackened his lungs. Outlasting these undisciplined bandits might have been so simple if he had started at his best. Instead he had rushed through long and difficult travels, _saw_ the enemy when it was _vulnerable,_ and yet he _didn’t_ _strike_.

The night continued into a deep blue pre-dawn. Altair’s mental chatter mushed together in his head, melted away as exhaustion took over. He stared at the ground, every blink threatening to become a black out.

As if to taunt him, the sergeant could be heard loudly snoring inside his tent, blissfully asleep. Altair tried to guess when the sergeant would wake up, when he would realize that his captured “Saracen’s” equipment had vanished. Chaos would surely spread through the camp, which Altair would have welcomed, if not for Gilo’s hand in the development. He and his followers would expect chaos and turn it to their advantage. Or likelier still, they would spring their next move before the sergeant rises.

Altair considered warning Ferrand. How would one of the sergeant’s most loyal men react to word of treachery? The Assassin could picture it: the camp might inevitably tear itself apart, but Altair’s account of Gilo would not be trusted, and he would not benefit from sharing it. If Gilo and Ferrand might agree on one subject, that subject would be their disdain for “heathens.”

Opportunities dwindled and died in the Assassin’s head. No weapons could be used, no words could matter. The bell on his arm and the rope around his wrists felt like a ball and chain, destroying any chance of freedom.

Dawn had arrived, poking between heavy clouds. Altair saw little of it between stretches of half-conscious listing with his eyes mostly shut. Silver-white rays flickered somewhere beyond his periphery.

A faint whistle passed suddenly by his shoulder, jarring him awake. Altair’s eyes fully opened in time to see a piece of metal hit the ground several steps away. A knife. _His_ knife, needle-sharp and gleaming against the dirt.

The knife that Nada took.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -been a while since my last update. it's only because i'm juggling this fic with another one. i have every intention of completing both fics


	8. Chapter 8

Nada was behind him, Altair realized. She never continued east, but had remained hidden nearby – and she had found her chance to help him.

Openmouthed, Altair twisted to look over his shoulder. The tents around camp sat quiet. He focused, permitting unseen color to bleed through and reveal his ally. A spot of blue stood out on a distant tree. There she was, hidden away in the boughs, looking back at him.

Relief quickly mingled with concern. _She should have run._

Altair turned back just as quickly, stilling the fast breaths that had risen up eagerly in his chest. He glanced for one curious instant at Ferrand, and found the soldier occupied, shaking a few pebbles from his boots. Feeling lucky at first, the Assassin considered that Nada may have waited until Ferrand was distracted. The knife had been sent at the perfect moment.

And it was the perfect tool. If he could reach it, that knife meant unbound wrists, an untethered bell, untold soldiers bleeding from fatal wounds.

_If._

Ferrand would certainly notice the misplaced weapon as time passed, or another soldier would stumble upon it as the morning continued. Snatching it up immediately, trying to use it with bound hands, could incur a number of consequences, success not included.

Altair’s heartbeat rushed in his ears. His eyes darted from his boots to his knife, measuring and re-measuring the distance in a frantic loop. Several steps…several obvious steps between himself and his opportunity.

Or one dramatic stumble.

Altair could act, to the extent that his conditioning in “discretion” would allow it. He blended comfortably with scholars, clasping his hands in humble, focused prayer, even when the blood and gore of violent contact had gummed the workings of his hidden blade, and plastered his sleeves to his arms. No matter the situation, he could make himself a quiet observer. Acting as a loud distraction ran contrary to everything he had practiced – but Altair resolved to try it nonetheless.

He pitched forward, staggering for an instant, then allowed genuine exhaustion to send him falling, turning. He landed hard, heard the bell clang, and felt the knife pressed flat to his back, concealed by his body.

Ferrand was up in an instant. Altair squirmed to grasp the handle in his bound hands. He blinked up at the approaching soldier, feeling dazed and allowing it to show.

“Pathetic,” the Frank seethed. “I’ll see to it you won’t stand any longer.”

Altair saw the first strike forming and knew where it would land, knew how he could counter it instantly in a proper fight. With his hands bound, and his plan set in place, he let the kick smash against his sternum. He curled to one side to gather his breath, and kept the knife concealed in his fists. Two more strikes dug sharp against his stomach.

Ferrand rushed down to seize Altair by the front of his robes, wrenching until they were face to face.

“You should feel lucky that I don’t simply break your neck. Ransoming you takes far too long, and I wonder if any ransom is coming at all!”

“Why keep me then? To torture me? To save me for when your camp has eaten their supplies and their horses, but haven’t quite devoured each other?”

“Our sergeant clings to the notion that you are worth something,” Ferrand growled. Altair was caught by an uppercut that clacked his teeth and snapped his neck backward. The soldier released him, and he dropped against the ground. A heavy boot pressed his back against the dirt.

“You will not move from this place. If I hear that insufferable bell again, I’ll take your head off its shoulders.”

Ferrand turned away, heading to the sergeant’s tent.

“I’ll be listening. And to be clear – we would kill you long before the horses.”

The camp spun. Altair squinted, and tried to ignore the sting of fresh bruises across his midsection. He focused instead on the knife in his hand. He had clutched it so tightly during the altercation that it had sliced his fingers, but now he handled it deftly in spite of the blood, pushing it up against the ropes around his wrists. The knife was small and light and certainly not meant for sawing through coarse fibers, but it was still sharp, and Altair gradually weakened the bindings, cutting deeper and deeper.

The ropes weren’t quite severed, but split enough that they had loosened just marginally. With a moment of careful twisting, Altair slipped his hands free.

He looked about the camp, grayed vision whirling to catch a spot of red. The tents flowed idly in the wind, and nothing else moved. No enemies made themselves known.

Altair brought the knife to the rope around his arm, breaking bunches of strands until it laid severed on the ground. The Assassin stood up unhindered, and disappeared silently behind the tent flap of “his lordship’s” chamber.

The interior was lit by a single lantern, and mostly filled by a straw-stuffed bed. Centered on it laid the dying man who had screamed his lungs raw for the better part of a day. He had been reduced to groaning, eyes shut, apparently asleep. A thin blanket covered him up to his shoulders, but it was matted with patches of black decay and smears of orange pus. Altair didn’t care to imagine what the body beneath it might look like, and the smell of waste and blood was already thick in the air. He resolved to disturb the lord’s body as little as possible. He crept forward, dusting bits of rope fiber from his blade, approaching with it drawn.

“You’re disgusting,” he whispered. “But your men have outdone you in that respect, haven’t they?”

The lord’s face shuddered, crusted eyes falling open, then stretching wide at the sight of the Assassin above him. His pale, bloated mouth flopped, fumbling for words.

“You may ask for death,” Altair said. “Or fight it. But the soldiers have grown accustomed to your screams, and you will be fighting against mercy, not malice.”

Rain began to fall, drizzling over the tent. His lordship stared up at it, eyes still wide with more than blind pain. Sadness, real and lucid, lingered behind that ghost-white face – nostalgia, even. Altair had been told that the crusaders’ homelands never wanted for rain.

“Are you thinking of home?” Altair found himself speaking carefully, letting little of his accent show through his words. Why he felt the sudden need to maintain a comforting illusion for a dying enemy, he didn’t know.

The lord nodded faintly.

“Then let me bring you there.”

Flesh wasn’t meant to _pop_ open so easily as that of his lordship’s swollen, plague-riddled throat, and Altair had never seen blood so syrupy, drooling out of the open wound like black-red tree sap. But the man had rattled his last breath as all the others before him, and Altair pulled his eyes shut with one familiar stroke.

Altair looked at his knife. His bloodletting had only begun, and there was so much left to spill….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -wet gangrene caused by a sword wound was the issue i was going for with his lordship, hope that was clear  
> -next chapter should prove to be an exciting change from the usual whump tropes, so stay tuned!  
> -as usual, comments are appreciated! i'm curious what my readers have liked best about this part of the series. it'll help me decide the tone of future chapters


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -fair warning, this chapter features a lot of gore

Altair wiped the knife on his robes and pulled up his hood, then punctured the leathery wall of the dead lord’s tent, splitting it slowly, quietly open.

He stepped through it, out under heavy sheets of rain that pelted the bare earth and churned it into mud. A soldier stood in front of him, stumbling obliviously away from the camp with his back to the opened tent. Altair lunged, unbound by any rope or shred of hesitation, and let his knife fly. It found the soldier’s kidney and nestled deep. He arched, fingers splayed against the clutch of death, and collapsed backward on his head. The Assassin descended on him, ripping his unused sword from its scabbard. It was a plain, dull, heavy-pommeled thing, but Altair resolved to make it dance across enemies’ bodies. He waved it experimentally, brushing past his own shoulder. Its weight held more promise than imbalance.

Peering between the lord’s tent and the sergeant’s, Altair noticed Ferrand pacing into the center of camp. Only instants would remain, then, before the soldiers were alerted. No matter. Altair enjoyed working quickly.

He approached the sergeant’s tent, and tore it open in a single furious _cut_. The sword ploughed over the furniture and supply crates, drawing sparks and splinters at every contact. Altair kicked over a remaining barrel and sprang into the tent to find the sergeant scrambling up from his bed, completely naked and screaming incoherently. Altair’s attempt to spear open the sergeant’s chest was barely deflected by deft use of a candle stick; the sword sheared it in two but was driven off course, landing on the dirt floor with a heavy thud. The sergeant turned to flee, flopping on his stomach before breaking through the front of the tent.

“To arms!” He yelled, and seemed about to repeat himself when Altair’s sword bit into his neck, severing his spine and pushing up, _deep_ beneath the base of his skull. Altair ripped the blade free, and gasped a hungry breath at the sight of fresh blood arcing into the air. It painted a thin stripe of crimson across his pale robes, the first of many.

The Assassin looked up and met eyes with Ferrand, who stood blanched and stunned above the corpse of his superior.

“You didn’t hear him?” Altair hissed, leaning in with his shoulders hunched, _poised_ to strike. “To arms.”

More men stumbled out of their tents, shouting at one another, fumbling for weapons and strapping on maille. Jerking to life like a disturbed puppet, Ferrand threw down his flask of wine and yanked his sword free. He drew in first, and the others moved with him to form a vicious circle of dull blades and starved, ferocious faces.

“I’ll split you open and leave you for the worms,” Ferrand announced, and swung.

Altair parried Ferrand’s sword down with his own, and surged up to backhand him straight across his jaw. The sound of the Frank’s skull smacking the earth drew a satisfied grin over the Assassin’s face. Two other soldiers immediately drew back, cringing and lowering their swords. Some hadn’t dared to join the fight from the start, darting wildly around the camp in wordless panic.

One man found the nerve to strike. Altair deflected the blade, and landed a kick so forceful that what little food the soldier had consumed was spewed out his throat, coating the dirt. Altair turned to face the others, sword raised….

Cold metal bit into his back, slicing under his shoulder blade. Altair stepped forward, then whirled to paint a gory stripe across his attacker’s throat. The Frank dropped, spurting blood.

Ferrand had regained his footing and struck out, as did two more of the soldiers. Altair jumped back, then brought down his sword with enough power to cleave open the nearest man’s face. Two of the remaining men fled at the sight of pale brain matter in open air, leaving only Ferrand.

“I should have killed you before,” Altair said, bracing to parry a second assault. The toes of his boots settled naturally into bloodstained dirt, while Ferrand’s fighting stance seemed to shift and sway.

“You could have tried,” the Frank blustered.

“Does it not matter to you? That an enemy chose compassion instead of violence?”

Ferrand sneered, as something truly bitter crossed the mind behind eyes that blazed.

“It would have mattered to my brother. And his wife.”

Ferrand’s sword was lowering, perhaps not intentionally. But Altair saw his opportunity as plainly as the lost, troubled stare of his opponent.

The Assassin drew up his sword with both hands, sending it straight through skin, throat and vertebrae. Ferrand’s neck had been impaled like a fat insect on a sharp needle. With one twisting yank, the sword tore free, and Ferrand flopped backward, his head tethered to his body by only a thin flap of muscle.

 _So mercy could have mattered for his family,_ Altair considered, looking down. _But not the man himself._

The Assassin surveyed the camp. The crusaders had left bootprints in the muddy soil that fanned out in all directions. One of them was still struggling to cross the river that had swelled with the weather. Two others had already passed the challenge, and raced for the distant hills.

The squeal of a horse and the shouting of several soldiers sounded from behind him. Altair turned back to find the cases of food missing from the sergeant’s tent. Dashing inside and out through the back of it, Altair looked up in time to see a wagon departing the stables, loaded with everything that the soldiers driving it had managed to pilfer. Hanging off the back end was Onfroi, whose bread-stuffed mouth fell open at the sight of Altair behind them.

Altair threw his sword – he would retrieve another if necessary. It sailed with all the force and accuracy that he could gather from an injured shoulder, striking Onfroi in an unfortunate, albeit effective location.

The soldier would have been better off not attempting to dodge, Altair considered, as Onfroi screamed, dropping everything in his hands so as to cling desperately to the escaping wagon. The assassin was disappointed to see that he held fast, and disappeared around a hillside at an unmatchable pace.

Altair approached the stables to find every remaining horse dead. Fresh gashes in their necks had soiled the hay in their pens. Of course they would leave the horses to rot, shameless cowards that they were. Facing their former captive with honor had never been their intention.

Rain mingled with the blood that trickled down Altair’s back. He clutched his shoulder as it began to ache, staring down the trail of wheel grooves in the mud. A piece of bread sat forgotten in between, and with it, a scrap of parchment. He plucked it from the ground; it was more than a scrap, he realized. It was the note that Gilo had written, detailing the soldiers’ plans, marking their destination with a coal-black cross.

Altair hurried to retrieve another sword.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -finally i managed to feature some classic ac combat  
> -vibing to cold by blvck ceiling at the moment  
> -on a roll with this fic. also i'm outlining part 3 of the series  
> -does anyone give a fuck about ferrand's tiny-violin backstory? i'm guessing not, but feel free to sound off


	10. Chapter 10

The route was clear enough; a black line stretched south alongside a sketch of the river. It diverged at a marking that looked like a broken bridge, and turned west, trailing toward some sort of cave.

Altair wondered if his horse was still waiting at the old house. Gilo could not be trusted, but had he at least followed his own plan? He frowned, swiping a muddy blade from the ground and wiping it clean on the coat of its fallen owner. Better to have something, in case his journey turned up nothing.

A faint rustle broke through the silence of the deserted camp, followed by a thud. Altair raced past the tents to find Nada at the foot of the tree she had climbed. She sat propped up with her arms; evidently, she hadn’t landed on her feet.

“Are you unhurt?” Altair rushed toward her, and she reached out a hand to be pulled up. He took it, but knelt instead so they were face to face.

Nada answered with a nod, but Altair could clearly see fresh blood pressed into her skirt, and doubted that the past couple of days had done any good for the gash in her knee. He gathered her up as he’d done before, and she clung tightly around him.

“I should thank you for helping me,” Altair said. “But I had hoped you would continue east. You could have stayed out of danger.”

She shook her head against his shoulder. Altair walked north, resolved not to stop until he’d reached the house with his weapons. With Nada as light as she was, he could carry her along easily.

“I’m going to settle this business with the _Franj_. Then I can take you back to your family. I promise.”

Nada didn’t seem to respond, although one of her hands felt up the patch of blood on Altair’s back, finding the wound that had traced under his shoulder blade. The sudden sting as her fingers reached it made Altair flinch.

“Do not-”

Nada redirected her grip.

“…Thank you.” If Altair had gained anything from observing the grisly ends of so many brothers, it was knowledge, or at least some few pieces of it. One being that bare hands in open wounds never seemed to end well.

They crested a hill, muddied dirt giving way to rain-slicked rock. Snaking along the valley below was the trail that Altair had followed east, and off the far side of it stood the little house that they had sheltered in.

“You should wait here,” Altair said, gently depositing Nada. She looked back at him, her face set in a frown that seemed stern or puzzled.

“I will see what can be recovered, and then I’ll return. If anyone sees you, hide or…” A glance around them confirmed that it lacked for hiding places. “Or scream if there’s danger, and I’ll dispose of it.”

Altair reached the house with no trouble, although his eyes flickered back and forth in search of any disturbance. The house sat lifeless as he opened the door to the charred remnants of the crusaders’ bonfire. The Assassin saw no trace of his equipment either, and he ground his teeth, pacing to the back door in the hopes that his horse, at least, might be waiting behind the house.

He opened the worn wooden door with a creak to find Gilo staring back at him instead.

Altair’s hand flew to his sword, but Gilo’s weapon – the Assassin’s shortblade – was already drawn. The Frank plunged it forward, and Altair leaped back, then seized the extended arm and began to twist, grappling for control. Gilo’s free hand sought the sword still sheathed at the Assassin’s hip. He ripped it free, even as he was pulled off his feet and thrown downward. Gilo brought up the sword in a wild, misguided swing, clipping Altair’s head and then sailing past him. The swing ended as the sword struck the floorboards, embedding itself in splintered wood. As Gilo struggled to yank it free, Altair fought harder against his grip on the shortblade. It clattered free of them both. Gilo flailed in an effort to snatch it off the floor, but Altair pinned down his arms, dragging him bodily out of reaching distance, then pressing him flat with a firm knee.

“Your plans never fail?” The Assassin taunted, grinning down at his enemy.

“Bastard.” The Frank spat blood from a badly-bitten tongue. “I knew you would come here. You broke our agreement. So you will not have your weapons. You will die here like the vermin that you are.”

“You can’t see that you’ve lost.” Not a question, but an almost pitying observation. “I will take what you stole from me, and I will use it to cut down the rest of you.”

“You think yourself some great warrior? Your faction are cowards the lot of them. None of you would survive the battles I have lived.”

“I plan to survive this one. You, however….”

Altair’s jaw snapped shut as metal shot through his thigh. Gasping, he looked down to find his own bracer strapped to Gilo’s wrist, the hidden blade embedded as deeply as the Frank could manage from where his arm lay pinned. Gilo thrashed, trying to widen the wound, and Altair moved both hands to pin the bracer and retract the blade. With one arm freed, Gilo surged upward, catching Altair around his throat and slamming him down.

Pain arrived so sharply that Altair wondered if his head had been split open. No blood seemed to spill across his scalp, but his skull burned, and once perfectly clear sight had melted into a pale blur.

Gilo’s elbow struck his forehead with even greater force in the next instant. Altair slumped, motionless as if dead.

“Where is the warrior now?” The taunt rang distant and muffled, but Altair knew that Gilo loomed close. The Assassin stared blankly, finding a wall, a floor, an enemy, all writhing into one meaningless, gray mass.

“You could have done as I demanded. I could have had what I wanted without ending your miserable life.”

A hard hand cupped his jaw and refreshed the sharp pain blooming in his head. Sparks blazed in the corners of Altair’s ruined vision, and he thought he could see teeth above him, somewhere in the midst of concussed delirium. They blazed too, furious and starved, snarling with white hot hate.

Gilo’s voice hissed through them:

“I am going to do what I _should_ have done when I had you at-!”

A vicious flash of dark metal and dark blood broke through the teeth. Gilo had collapsed somewhere beside him. Another figure stood over them both, seeming to shake in a way that was not entirely a product of Altair’s jarred consciousness. The figure screamed – a woman’s scream, _Nada’s_ – and began a flurry of frantic, repulsed jabs, as if driving a large viper out of the house. Red pulp coated the floorboards and silenced Gilo’s shuddering body. As soon as the flurry began, it ended. The sword was dropped with a clatter that seemed to startle its own user, and then Nada was a lump on the floor, breathing hard but steady, controlled.

Altair tried to speak, but his mind swam in fragments, all words vanished from memory – and so he stared blankly at the shapes that threatened to lose their meaning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -franj=franks  
> -the death of gilo! god bless america. it needed to happen  
> -feel free to comment about what you look forward to seeing in future chapters, or what's been interesting to you so far


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -i liiiiiive  
> -to anyone who actually read the first ten chapters, thanks for your patience :]

Steadfast focus had always separated the surviving novices from those who perished. Any boy born into the Order could grow to be strong, or fast, or cunning. But whether those skills prevailed, through all the wicked trials of conflict, would matter most.

Altair could focus, could allow his vision to be pulled along by one wandering target in a vast crowd, could strike a killing blow through the twentieth target, could cling to the hundredth handhold and summit the Cathedral of the Holy Cross. His focus had not failed him before, and he fought to maintain it now, pushing himself from the floor to blink sense into a world that blurred before his eyes.

Nada’s figure moved in front of him, moving or twitching slightly or…was she waving at him? Squinting, Altair searched for her aura, willing the glow of blue from indistinct gray. As the eagle’s sight returned to him, so did clarity; Nada was no longer a flat shape, but the same woman he recognized from the beginning of his journey.

“You saved me,” he said. It was his first certainty in the wake of chaos, and he thought it aloud with a nod. Nada had taken up a weapon – though injured, frail, and inexperienced – and she had cut down an enemy.

The woman pointed to her head. To indicate what? What was she thinking? But as she pointed in turn to Altair, he remembered the impact of his skull against the floor.

“I will be fine,” he assured. He had to be, he thought. No time could be spared cringing, hoping for the pain to weaken in his head, or for his slashed leg to stop bleeding. He would kill the Franks before they might wonder at Gilo’s disappearance and flee any further. Or worse, scatter.

Altair lurched toward Gilo’s body, and cut away a piece of the soldier’s uniform, then twisted and knotted it over his own leg. Nothing could be done for his head, not without missing the chance at revenge.

Now to stand. The effort blacked out the corners of his vision, but with his teeth clenched, and every instant dedicated to maintaining balance, he staggered out of the house.

By the time that house had disappeared behind them, Altair could see clearly ahead, albeit through his altered sight alone. Nada sat behind him astride his horse, silent as always – though she eventually began to tap his shoulder and point towards the morning sun.

“We will turn east once the enemies are dealt with,” Altair said.

Nada’s hand returned to his shoulder, pressing hard and shaking him.

“This path will take us east in time. Directly east lies contested territory. Skirmishes are common there. But the soldiers I seek have hidden away from such places. If we turn now, we may face more enemies than if we continue. Do you understand?”

Turning back to her sent a fresh jab of pain through his skull, and Nada’s disapproving expression felt almost as sharp.

“You want to arrive home safely, don’t you? Your chances are better if we take the longer path.”

Nada shook her head, then pointed to one of the pouches on Altair’s belt. Altair turned forward again, puzzled for a moment, before realizing that he had stashed the Franks’ map there. Pulling the scrap of paper free, Nada was quick to point at it, pausing over the cross where the soldiers had likely settled.

“My father,” she spoke. “Nearby.”

“Your father? I don’t understand.” Altair slowed the horse so as to stare back at her. Had she really just spoken to him?

Nada hesitated, her eyes fixed on the soldiers’ map.

“Explain. Please, tell me what you mean.”

“We must not go.”

Altair saw it this time; Nada’s mouth had formed the words. Her voice wasn’t lost completely after all.

“So be it,” Altair answered, and resolved to turn east at the next opportunity. Onfroi and the other soldiers had not been forgotten, and the thought of catching them tempted him greatly. But Nada had saved his life twice now, and the Assassin would honor her wishes.

 _She spoke,_ he thought again, unsure how she had managed to regain her voice at such a harrowing time. He supposed she was the type of person whose trials only strengthened her.

The conflict appeared much like the rain that morning: a trickle at first, then a downpour. The stamp of distant hoofbeats could be heard echoing off cliffsides, multiplying as did the bodies on the ground. The rain had swept across fresh battlefields, flooding every ditch and hoofprint in a color not quite brown or red. Men in varying uniforms could be seen dead or dying, half-swallowed by dark mud. Arrows bristled from the ground, and charred trees stretched to a sky yellowed by smoke.

When Altair rounded a corpse-strewn hillside, he found the road ahead blocked by foreign soldiers. They faced him, having likely heard his approach, and their swords were bared to air that reeked of blood.

The Assassin drew his own sword, and spurred on his horse. Though his Order may have left behind the religious practices of the Nizaris – those who had laid the foundations of Masyaf’s castle – their martial code of Furusiyya had never been forgotten. Altair had studied it for the better part of his life, as did any agent of his brotherhood. The enemies would part, or risk a blade across their throats.

As Altair closed in, the commander stood his ground, and cried, “Assassin!”

Any words that might have followed were silenced when horse hooves struck him at a full gallop, stamping him into the ground. His nearest ally was split open with one swipe from Altair. With every soldier on foot, they could only strike once before the horse and its riders escaped, out of range. None of their strikes managed to bloody their targets.

“I expect there will be more,” Altair said. Nada remained silent, but clung firmly against him.

The path narrowed down a steep valley, then widened into a clearing. As their horse charged on, Altair realized that he and Nada were blundering into an active battle.

Horses ringed the clearing, some bearing knights in their bright coats and brighter armor, others ridden by Saracen archers. They raced and clashed in total chaos, many treading straight over fallen bodies. At Altair’s approach, one of the mounted knights immediately turned to engage him. Altair resolved to strike first, parrying the swipe of a broadsword and the plunging into the gap between plate and plate. Leather yielded, followed by muscle, as the knight was speared off his horse. A second knight was quick to follow, unhelmeted and screaming in his native language. Altair circled him, waiting until the enemy struck out with his pike. He seized the offending weapon, then closed in and severed the connected arm at the shoulder.

With the first enemies downed, a strip of clear land waited ahead. Altair spurred his horse on. Some distance further, one of the Saracens had just fired at an enemy, and drew a fresh arrow. He squinted under his helmet in the Assassin’s direction, and Altair could see his whole body jolt as recognition replaced uncertainty.

“Duck, Nada!”

Some part of him had hoped that Nada’s presence might have deterred the soldiers from attacking. No use, he realized, as the Saracen fired. The arrow sung past their heads, and Altair continued forward, reigns in one hand and sword in the other.

The strike he had prepared would never come, as a crusader thundered in between them. The knight was skewered on arrows, soaked in his own blood, and likely dead, though his mount was very much alive. It swiped against Altair’s horse on its frantic path, and Nada lost her hold on Altair, beginning to fall from the saddle. With his sword arm occupied, Altair wrenched back his free arm to catch her. His arm bent awkwardly, but he found a hold on Nada’s dress, and tugged her upright as they continued the charge. The once-broken arm had proven useful after all.

The Saracen had turned to evade them. Another took his place, firing a fresh shot in their direction. Altair felt the arrowhead plunge into the hardened leather of his belt, jabbing his stomach but not quite spearing deep. Nada’s shout told him that she likely couldn’t judge the damage. With no time to explain, he simply raised his weapon and plunged it into the Saracen’s back, just as he had begun his escape.

The first Saracen had rounded to face them side-on. Altair considered engaging him, but with an opening ahead, he favored avoiding the fight. Another crusader began to charge up behind him, and the Assassin was forced to turn anyway, keeping Nada safe from the broadsword’s reach. Altair flung a throwing knife at the knight’s visor, missing the slits but jarring the enemy nonetheless. It proved enough of a distraction to close the distance and spear the knight’s neck. Turning forward again, Altair spied the distance, where the battle might give way to open trails, to safety from chaos….

Another arrow sung past him, painting a stripe of blood across his periphery. The Saracen had struck Nada.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -as always, please feel free to share your thoughts! what will happen to poor lil nada  
> -i replayed ac1 specifically to check out the mechanics of mounted combat, so that i could do a decent job at this chapter


	12. Chapter 12

The horse charged on faithfully. Altair had steered it to intercept his enemy, and when the distance was closed, he cleaved open the Saracen’s neck with one stroke. Wheeling off to escape the battlefield, the Assassin looked to Nada. The arrow had found her shoulder, and she clutched it in wide-eyed silence.

“Hold on,” he urged her. “We’ll turn back.”

Behind them, the swarm of fighters thundered over the dirt. One of the knights broke away to pursue them, and Altair spurred his horse faster. He heard shouting – something in French, too quick and too muffled behind a heavy visor to discern. The distance widened between them, and eventually they had traveled far enough through thickening forests to lose sight of their follower, and forget the sounds of battle altogether. Altair couldn’t help but take note that their new route was leading them directly to the Franks’ camp. Still, he considered that stopping for any reason would be reckless with Nada in her current state. He ripped the Saracen’s stray arrow from his belt, and resolved to continue on.

Altair finally brought his horse to a stop at a small clearing, where the foundations of a flattened watchtower poked up from the mud. The Assassin’s leg burned as he dismounted, and fresh blood began to seep through the padding. He ignored it as he lowered Nada from the saddle. She brushed off his hands, and staggered over to a half-crumbled flagstone to sit.

“Let me see to the arrow,” Altair said, and reached out toward her shoulder, but was brushed off again. Nada shook her bowed head forcefully, swiping tears from her face.

“Please, don’t panic. I can help you, and once you allow me, we can find another way east.” The Assassin knelt down in front of her, waiting for her to say something, or at least look back at him. Her breathing appeared too quick and unsteady, and Altair could see her teeth as she cringed and clutched at herself.

Slowly, Altair rose up to sit beside her, and drew an arm across her back. His words had done nothing to calm her, and so he waited silently instead, barely holding her. He could not remember the last time he had truly attempted to comfort someone, and supposed that it would have been fifteen years ago or more, when his young brothers were still capable of crying, and when he had cared enough to help them.

Nada’s breaths began to slow. Tears rolled from her face onto Altair’s robes, where she had leaned against him. Altair had always known that civilians could rarely stomach the perils of combat; a single sword raised or bow drawn against them could shatter the illusions of safety that they held so sacred.

“You will be safe again soon,” he promised, and Nada sobbed in what he hoped might be relief.

Only as night began to fall did she finally accept help. Altair gently cut away her sleeve to find that the arrow had lodged against bone, failing to pass cleanly through flesh. Attempting to push the arrowhead further would be pointless, and likely excruciating, but forcing it back out would rip open an already deep wound. Reassuring her several times over, Altair directed Nada to lie on her back, then gave the arrow a tentative pull. The blood – and resulting scream – was enough to make him stop instantly and press the wound shut.

“We will have to find a surgeon,” he said. “Unless you would rather I try again. This arrow cannot be easily removed, but I don’t want you to suffer.”

He wanted to help her. Badly. Nada might never have been targeted by the Saracens if not for his presence. He had marked her as an enemy by association and brought her unnecessary pain. An injury which might kill her, no less. Guilt clawed at every thought; he hated the feeling, but knew it was well-deserved. It always was.

Nada’s response was difficult to read, if she had intended to respond at all. But as Altair waited for a nod or a word, he heard something different: distant hoofbeats in the forest. The sound grew nearer every second, and Altair pulled Nada to her feet, urging her toward the trees where she might be safely hidden. They were only a few steps from the ruined fort when an armored knight and his mount barreled into the clearing. Altair drew his sword in an instant as Nada ran off past him.

“Hold, traveler!” Called the knight. Altair recognized him as the same man who had chased them off the battlefield, shouting after them. With no means of escaping him now, Altair was at least able to clearly understand him.

“Why have you followed us? I have no interest in fighting you.”

“I do not, either,” the knight answered, and without drawing so much as a dagger, he dismounted his horse, leading it forward until only some ten steps remained between himself and Altair.

“I saw you fleeing the ambush! It appeared that the heathens turned their aim against you. To think that they would attack their own kind – a humble scholar and his wife, no less!”

The knight’s name was Arnaut, and he was quick to tell his story after hitching his horse and building a small campfire, constantly assuring his new acquaintances that he meant no harm. He had taken the cross at his native Gisors, and was knighted in the Kingdom of Jerusalem only last Easter. The skirmish against the Saracen archers had been his first, and seeing a pair of travelers caught amid the violence had shaken him.

Evidently, Altair thought, Arnaut had not seen his crusader brothers brought down by an Assassin’s sword.

“We simply made an unfortunate turn,” Altair said. “You did not see us arrive?”

“I was unaware of you until I saw the woman with an arrow in her arm. Such a terrible sight! I knew immediately it was the Saracens’ doing.”

“Many of them do not take kindly to scholars.” _Many recognize us for what we are._

“And I am certainly not like them!” Arnaut affirmed. “I would not attack an innocent – though I see now why my pursuit may have frightened you. The Holy Land is not kind to the helpless.”

Altair couldn’t help but blink at Arnaut’s choice of words, and failed to remember the last time he had ever been described as “helpless.” Beside him, even Nada seemed to raise her brows. She had been the first to sit across from the crusader and warm herself by the fire, clutching the unmoved arrow from time to time. Altair remained close to her, reluctant to let down his guard, even in the presence of a possible ally.

“My Order serves to guard and shepherd our own pilgrims,” the knight added. “I believe it would please me to help you similarly, virtuous pagans that you are.” He smiled, red-cheeked and almost innocent, through his raised visor. Altair and Nada exchanged a short glance, and the Assassin wondered if she understood French.

“We plan to use another route, one that should prove safer,” Altair said. “Though I suspect that a small band of crusaders have camped in the area.”

“What sort of band?”

“Soldiers who were originally stationed on the river west of here. Their commander was ill for many days and their supplies had run low.”

Arnaut’s flushed cheeks seemed to turn pale as he leaned in, listening.

“Would you know such men?” Altair asked. The once-talkative knight began to hesitate.

“My father commanded that outpost,” he said at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -after writing several disillusioned or dishonorable crusader types, i thought that a happily brainwashed one would be a nice change. arnaut drank all of the kool-aid basically  
> -any predictions on how he might contribute to the plot? also i'm curious if people think nada is gonna survive this story, or if it won't turn out as well for her

**Author's Note:**

> -after the sausage fest that was my last work, i'm kinda happy to introduce someone different (even if the story might not revolve much around her)  
> -altair might be helpful as far as protecting people, but he doesn't strike me as the nurturing type, so i hope his awkwardness in that role is coming across  
> -any thoughts on the new situation? sound off my dudes  
> -also i'll probably delete these notes at some point just so they'll stop showing up at the bottom of every chapter. dunno why chapter 1 notes have to be like that


End file.
